The athletic hallway fell dead silent. Even Mitchell stopped groaning for a second, sensing the sudden drop in the room’s atmosphere.
Thomas Turner went completely gray. The blood drained from his face so fast it looked like he had suffered a massive coronary event. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but not a single sound emerged.
Beside him, Sheriff Bob Turner’s fingers went slack on his weapon. His eyes flicked to the phone screen, then snapped to Rachel’s face with a look that was no longer just corrupt bullying.
It was pure, unadulterated terror.
Who is Vince Vance working for, Thomas? Rachel asked, her voice dropping into a deadly, velvet whisper that cut through the silence like a piano wire. Why does the head football coach of a high school have a classified deployment personnel file from the Department of the Army? And why would finding out about it burn this town to the ground?
You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bob rasped, though his voice lacked any shred of its previous authority. His hand was visibly trembling on his duty belt. You’re out of your depth, girl. You need to hand that phone to me right now, or this goes beyond a school fight. This becomes a matter of state security.
State security? Rachel let out a soft, mocking chuckle. Sheriff, I had top-secret clearance with JSOC before your nephew learned how to throw a football. I know what a DoD file looks like. And more importantly, I know that whatever is in that locker room lockbox has nothing to do with lesson plans, midterms, or high school pranks.
She took three slow, deliberate steps toward the locked door of the athletic equipment cage, where the shattered padlock lay beside the iron pry bar.
Mitchell didn’t come down here to vandalize my classroom, did he, Thomas? Rachel asked, her eyes boring into the wealthy businessman. You sent him. You used your own son to break into the school after hours because you couldn’t risk being seen doing it yourself. You had Coach Vance direct him to the files.
Shut up! Thomas screamed, his voice turning into an unhinged screech. You don’t know anything! You think you’re a hero because you survived the desert? You brought the fire with you, Rachel Morgan! You should have died in that Humvee outside Fallujah like the rest of your squad!
The words hung in the air like a detonated grenade.
Rachel stopped dead in her tracks.
Her spine went completely rigid. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly seemed deafeningly loud.
Nobody in Liberty Falls knew about the Humvee.
When Rachel had applied for the teaching position, her public file stated only that she had completed an honorable military service discharge with medical retirement. The details of the Fallujah ambush—the specific vehicle, the improvised explosive device that had severed her squad leader’s femoral artery, the horrific explosion that had killed three soldiers under her care—were classified under Department of Defense Directive 5200. Those details were sealed by a federal court order following a top-secret investigation into faulty military equipment supplied by private defense contractors.
Contractors whose supply chains originated right here in the Rust Belt of Pennsylvania.
Rachel slowly turned her head back toward Thomas Turner. Her dark eyes were no longer cold. They were pitch black, burning with a lethal, terrifying focus that made Thomas take two involuntary steps backward until his spine hit the blue lockers.
How do you know about that Humvee, Thomas? Rachel whispered.
Thomas swallowed hard, his throat clicking loudly. He looked wildly at his brother, realizing he had just made a catastrophic, unforgivable slip of the tongue.
Bob, Thomas whispered, panic bleeding through his teeth. Kill the power. Call the deputies. We need to take her down now. We can’t let her leave this building.
Sheriff Bob Turner’s hand moved back to his holster, his face set in a grim, desperate scowl. He had made his decision. The stakes were too high. The secrets of Liberty Falls were worth far more than the life of an outsider.
I’m sorry, Miss Morgan, Bob said, drawing his Glock once more and raising it to center mass. You’re resisting arrest. You’re armed and dangerous. You leave me no choice.
Mitchell wept on the floor. Cody and Brett pressed their eyes shut, waiting for the deafening roar of gunfire to shatter their ears.
Rachel didn’t blink. She didn’t move. She simply looked past the sheriff’s shoulder toward the dark double doors at the end of the athletic hallway.
I wouldn’t pull that trigger, Sheriff, Rachel said quietly.
Why the hell not? Bob snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Because, Rachel replied, her voice steady as iron, you didn’t check the parking lot when you drove in.
